Aunt Dimity Goes West Read online

  A profusion of wildflowers bloomed in unkempt tangles along the well-trodden path. I tried to memorize the flowers’ colorful names as Toby pointed them out—Orange Sneezeweed, Witches Thimble, Shooting Star, Fairy Trumpet—but when he reached Rosy Pussytoes, I burst out laughing.

  “Rosy Pussytoes?” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “That’s what it’s called,” Toby insisted. “There are Alpine Pussytoes as well. In fact, if you stick alpine in front of any plant’s name, you won’t go far wrong. Alpine sunflower, alpine lily, alpine clover—”

  “Alpine magnolia,” I put in, “alpine eucalyptus—”

  “—alpine palm tree, alpine rutabaga,” he continued.

  By the time we reached alpine bougainvillea, we were giggling so hard that we had to stop walking. While I leaned against a fir tree to catch my breath, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a good giggle since I’d been shot. Bill had been as caring as any human being could be, and my best friend Emma had been wonderfully sympathetic, but Toby, who knew nothing of my harrowing brush with death, was giving me something I hadn’t realized I needed: a healthy dose of silliness. I felt a rush of gratitude toward him as we continued downhill.

  The Lord Stuart Trail was so pretty and we were having such a good time that it came as something as a letdown when we finally reached the edge of town and the paved surface of Lake Street. The first house we saw would have had a lovely view of Lake Matula if it hadn’t been surrounded by piles of highly unattractive junk. I stared in dismay at rusty bedsprings, an assortment of old washing machines, several rotting mattresses, a couch covered in split vinyl, a car radiator, and a myriad of other items that would no doubt fascinate some future archaeologist but which filled me with revulsion.

  “Don’t judge Bluebird by Dick Major’s house,” Toby advised.

  “Dick Major lives here?” I stopped dead in my tracks and swung around for a closer look at the house. The roof seemed to be intact, but the paint on the walls was peeling badly and most of the windows were boarded up. “What a slob.”

  Toby hushed me and tugged gently on my elbow. “Keep your voice down and keep moving, please, Lori. I haven’t had a run-in with Dick yet, and I don’t want to push my luck.”

  “Sorry,” I said, but as we walked away, I kept looking over my shoulder. It was hard to believe that anyone would willingly live in the midst of such a mess. “What does he do for a living? Collect garbage?”

  “No idea,” Toby replied.

  “If you ask me, his next-door neighbor moved just to get away from the smell of moldy mattress,” I commented.

  “Could be,” said Toby and increased our pace.

  The houses became progressively tidier as we walked on. None reached the level of tidiness routinely maintained in Finch, but there was a certain careworn charm to most of them. I was particularly fond of a tiny Victorian cottage that had been painted lavender with bright purple trim. Its picket-fenced front garden was overflowing with a shaggy collection of lupines, columbines, and fluttering poppies as well as an assortment of vivid “alpine” flowers.

  Most of Bluebird’s businesses were located on Stafford Avenue, one block over from the highway that split the town in two. The buildings were made of wood or brick, in a Victorian style that suggested they’d been built before the turn of the last century. Whatever their original purposes, the buildings now housed a mixture of useful shops and places favored by travelers.

  The hardware store stood beside Eric’s Mountain Bikes, the grocery beside the Mother Lode Antique Mall, the post office beside an art gallery featuring watercolors by local artist Claudia Lechat. Sweet Jenny’s Ice Cream Emporium specialized in Olde Tyme Fudge and Crazy Chris’s Camping Supplies offered special deals on bait to those who fished Lake Matula or the trout streams that ran through the Vulgamore Valley.

  Toby and I stopped at Dandy Don’s Discount Pharmacy & Gifts, where I bought a handful of postcards depicting mountain scenes similar to those we’d seen during our hikes. Since I was a great believer in supporting local businesses, I didn’t even try to resist padding my order with a packet of columbine seeds for Emma, a pair of gilded aspen-leaf earrings for Annelise, a pair of suede moccasins for me, and two adorable stuffed animals—buffalo—to remind Rob and Will of their first visit to the Wild West.

  Tourists weren’t exactly thronging the sidewalks on Stafford Avenue, but a fair number of them were moseying in and out of the shops, slurping ice-cream cones, studying maps, or snapping photographs of one another behind the hitching post in front of Altman’s Saloon, HOME OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS ALTMAN’S BURGER. As I watched a family group posing for the camera, I thought of what a shame it would be if a bigmouthed bonehead like Dick Major spoiled their fun with rude remarks or crude gestures.

  I was pleased to see that a real effort had been made to dress up the main drag. Baskets filled with multicolored pansies hung from the old-fashioned, cast-iron street lamps, and wooden benches with fancy scrollwork arms and legs sat next to many of the store entrances. A large banner strung across the street proclaimed BLUEBIRD GOLD RUSH DAYS JULY 8-9-10 in bold print, but I had eyes only for a modest wooden sign hanging above a storefront on our right.

  “Caroline’s Cafe,” I said, pointing to the sign. “Let’s go in. I could do with a cold drink, and you can introduce me to Carrie Vyne. I’d like to tell her how much we’ve enjoyed everything we’ve tried from her cafe.”

  “After you,” said Toby.

  Tinkling bells jingled as he pulled the lace-curtained door open for me. I stepped inside, stopped short, and peered around the room in wonder. Caroline’s Cafe reminded me so poignantly of the tearoom back in Finch, with its charmingly mismatched china, chairs, and tables, that a wave of homesickness threatened to overwhelm me.

  “Where’s Carrie Vyne?” I whispered to Toby.

  “Behind the bakery counter,” he whispered back. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and breathed a sigh of relief as we made our way to an unoccupied table.

  If Carrie Vyne had looked like Sally Pyne, the proprietress of Finch’s one and only tearoom, I would have fainted dead away right then and there. Fortunately, she didn’t. Both women were middle-aged, but while Sally was short and round, Carrie was tall and stately. Sally’s garish tracksuits were a favorite topic of caustic conversation in Finch, but Carrie would have aroused no comment at all, being tastefully dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a pale-pink, short-sleeved cotton blouse. And Sally wore her iron-gray hair clipped quite short while Carrie wore her white hair in soft waves that framed a lined but very kindly face.

  “Back again, Toby?” she said, coming to our table to fill our water glasses. Her voice was light and musical, quite unlike Sally Pyne’s staccato bark.

  “Where else would I go for my midmorning munchies?” Toby responded, with a grin. He drew a hand through the air between Carrie Vyne and me. “Carrie, this is Lori Shepherd. Lori, this is Carrie. Lori’s the woman I told you about, Carrie. The one who’s staying at the Aerie.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lori,” she said.

  “Likewise,” I said. “Very pleased. We’ve loved everything Toby’s brought up from the cafe—the scones, the jams, the croissant sandwiches. You’re a brilliant baker and a wonderful cook.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Carrie, blushing rosily. “Are you enjoying your stay at the Aerie?”

  “I am,” I said. “I wish my sons were here so that I could introduce them to you, but they’re spending the day at the Brockman Ranch.”

  “I’ve heard they’re good little riders,” said Carrie.

  I almost said, “Of course you have,” but caught myself just in time. I was delighted to know that Carrie Vyne had her ear to the rail, but I didn’t want to risk insulting her by implying that she was a gossip.

  “They do okay,” I acknowledged.

  “Better than okay, I’d say,” said Carrie. “From what I’ve heard, they’ll be roping calves before th
e week’s out.”

  “Oh, Lord, I hope not,” I said weakly.

  “Brett’ll watch over them,” Carrie said reassuringly. She finished filling our glasses and left the water pitcher on the table for us to use. “What can I get for you, Lori? I already know what I’m going to bring Toby, but what kind of snack would you like?”

  “I’ll have whatever Toby’s having,” I said.

  “Won’t take but a minute.”

  Carrie returned to the bakery counter and came back five minutes later with two tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade, two small, mismatched plates, and a larger plate filled with cookies that looked disturbingly familiar.

  “Calico Cookies!” Toby exclaimed. “My favorites! Thank you, Carrie. What’s in them today?”

  “You tell me,” she said with a wink and went to serve another customer.

  Toby seized a cookie, took a large bite, and chewed slowly, with a look of deep concentration on his face.

  “Chocolate chips,” he murmured, “dried cranberries, and…sliced almonds?” He came out of his trance and gestured for me to sample a cookie, explaining, “Carrie adds different goodies to the basic recipe every time, so you never know what you’ll find. But she always leaves out the coconut when I’m in town. She knows I can’t stand coconut.”

  I stared at the cookies as though they were hand grenades. If Toby was telling the truth—and I had no reason to think he wasn’t—then Carrie Vyne’s Calico Cookies could quite easily be mistaken for Sally Pyne’s Crazy Quilt Cookies, right down to the absence of coconut. I raised a cookie slowly to my lips, bit into it, tasted the familiar blend of sweet, tangy, and faintly spicy flavors, and lowered it gingerly to my plate.

  “Do you know where she got the recipe?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

  “I think she made it up,” said Toby. “Aren’t they great?”

  “They’re great,” I said, and turned to look over my shoulder as the front door’s bells jingled and a large woman with a weathered face and rhinestone-studded glasses barreled into the cafe.

  Toby followed my gaze, heaved a small sigh, and muttered, “Buckle your seat belt. Maggie Flaxton has arrived.”

  “Carrie!” bellowed Maggie Flaxton. “Why don’t you have a sign in your window for Gold Rush Days? How are we going to draw a crowd if we don’t advertise?”

  “The banner is working fine,” Carrie answered mildly. “All of my customers ask about the festival.”

  The large woman sniffed doubtfully and rounded on me. “What about you? Did you ask about the festival?”

  “I only just got here,” I said, fighting the urge to snap to attention. “I was going to ask—”

  “You’re up at the Auerbach place, aren’t you?” Maggie Flaxton interrupted.

  “Y-yes,” I managed, cowed by her commanding voice.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll stay long,” she roared. “None of them do, and who can blame them? I wouldn’t spend five minutes there if I could help it. But if you’re still around in July, we could use your help. It’s all hands on deck during Gold Rush Days. Toby’s running the wood-splitting contest.” She turned back to Carrie Vyne. “I want to see a sign in your window before the day is out, Carrie.”

  “It’ll be there,” Carrie promised resignedly.

  “It had better be,” shouted Maggie. “I can’t do everything myself, you know.” Frowning fiercely, she spun on her heel and stomped out of the cafe.

  “Whew,” said Toby, leaning his head on his hand. “She could rule the world if she put her mind to it, Maggie could.”

  “Does she run the grocery?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Toby, “and everything else in town. How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I replied.

  I popped the rest of the cookie into my mouth and told myself sternly not to tell Toby that Bluebird’s Maggie Flaxton was very like Finch’s Peggy Taxman. I’d promised Aunt Dimity that I wouldn’t mention doppelgangers to anyone, and I intended to keep my promise, but apart from that, I didn’t want Toby to think that the sun had fried my brains.

  “I wonder why she wouldn’t spend five minutes at the Aerie?” I said.

  “I don’t,” said Toby, with a wry smile. “The Aerie’s too far away from town for her liking. Maggie prefers to crack her whip at close range.”

  A moment later the bells jingled again and a small balding man put his head cautiously into the cafe.

  “It’s all right, Greg,” Carrie called to him. “Maggie’s gone.”

  “Greg Wilstead,” Toby murmured, for my benefit. “The shyest man in Bluebird.”

  “Lori,” Carrie said brightly, looking in my direction, “if your boys are interested in trains, you should bring them to visit Greg. You’ve got an amazing set of tracks laid out in your garage, haven’t you Greg?”

  The little man ducked his head, mumbled something incoherent, and refused to meet my eyes.

  “Thanks, Carrie, I’ll keep it in mind,” I said dazedly, envisioning the shy and balding George Wetherhead, Finch’s local expert on railroads.

  “Lori’s staying up at the Auerbach place,” Carrie added.

  Greg Wilstead’s head came up and he peered at me, his eyes wide with something that closely resembled horror.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, and left the cafe without buying so much as a bread roll.

  “What was that about?” I said, looking after him.

  “Don’t know,” said Toby. “Drink your lemonade, Lori. It’s squeezed fresh every morning.”

  I’d taken only a sip of the lemonade, which was splendidly refreshing, when the jingling bells announced the arrival of a middle-aged, deeply tanned, and extremely overweight couple dressed in brightly colored T-shirts and baggy shorts. They went straight to the bakery counter and ordered a dozen doughnuts, a dozen elephant ears, and a dozen blackberry tarts to go. While they waited for Carrie to put their order together, they turned to survey the cafe. Their faces lit up when they saw Toby.

  “Howdy, Tobe,” called the woman.

  “How the heck are you, Tobe?” said the man.

  “Just fine. Pull up some chairs while you’re waiting.” Toby turned to me as the couple joined us at our table. “Nick and Arlene Altman run Bluebird’s most popular watering hole, Lori.”

  “Altman’s Saloon?” I guessed. “Home of the world-famous Altman’s burger?”

  “That’s right,” said Nick proudly. “Arlene makes the biggest, juiciest burgers in the Rockies.”

  “We run a family-friendly bar, Lori,” Arlene informed me. “Feel free to bring your little ones with you any time.”

  “And their good-looking nanny,” Nick put in. “Heard all about her from the boys at the Brockman.”

  “Men,” said Arlene, clucking her tongue.

  “I’m sure Tobe’s told you that I make my own beer,” Nick said, ignoring his wife and turning toward me. “Are you a beer drinker, Lori?”

  Behind him, Toby and Arlene were shaking their heads frantically.

  “Uh, no,” I said, reading the signal. “In fact, I don’t drink much at all.”

  “You may start if you stay at the Aerie too long,” said Nick, chuckling.

  “Our order’s ready, Nick,” said Arlene, and they heaved themselves to their feet.

  “Nice to meet you, Lori,” said Nick. “You be careful up there, you hear?”

  “Hush, Nick,” said Arlene. “Pay no attention to my husband, Lori. He’s full of hot air.”

  “No, I’m not.” Nick patted his ample stomach. “I’m full of your big, juicy burgers.”

  He chuckled merrily as he and Arlene paid for their order and left.

  Once they’d gone, Toby leaned in close to me.

  “Do not ever try Nick Altman’s beer,” he said. “I had to drink a whole bottle of it on my eighteenth birthday, just to be polite. My head nearly fell off the next day. The stuff is deadly.”

  I steadfastly refused to dwell on the startling similarities between the rotund
Nick Altman and the equally plump Dick Peacock, who ran Peacock’s Pub in Finch and made wine that could be used to strip paint, and focused instead on Nick’s somewhat alarming comment concerning the Aerie.

  “Why did Nick tell me to be careful up at the Aerie?” I asked.

  “He’s probably afraid you’ll overexert yourself,” said Toby. “He and Arlene don’t believe in exercise.”

  “Really?” I said, in mock astonishment.

  Toby began to laugh, but when the bells jingled again, he stopped abruptly.

  “Oh no,” he said under his breath. “My luck’s run out.”

  “You’re in early today, Dick,” Carrie called. “What can I get for you?”

  I took a surreptitious look over my shoulder and caught my first glimpse of the infamous Dick Major.

  Ten

  Dick Major didn’t look like a murderous lunatic or a garbage collector. He looked like a jolly grandfather, and to my intense relief, he didn’t remind me of anyone in Finch.

  His face was round and pink, silver-rimmed glasses framed his pale blue eyes, and he wore his grizzled gray hair in a precisely clipped crew cut. He was neatly dressed in a short-sleeved yellow shirt, lightweight tan trousers, and a well-worn pair of brown suede shoes. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was imposing, thanks to broad shoulders and a barrel chest that strained the buttons of his shirt. His voice, when he replied to Carrie Vyne’s question, was higher pitched than I would have expected from a man with his burly build, and it held an unexpected undertone of general bonhomie.

  “The usual?” said Carrie.

  “You bet,” he said. “Black coffee and a couple of jelly doughnuts to go. You got elephant ears today?”

  “I sure do,” Carrie said.

  “Throw in a couple of elephant ears, too,” said Dick. “And make it a large black coffee.”

  “Coffee’ll take a few minutes,” Carrie warned. “I’m making a fresh pot.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait.” Dick Major turned away from the bakery counter to cast a seemingly benevolent gaze on the cafe’s customers. His pale blue eyes lit up when he spotted Toby and me, and a wide grin spread across his face. As he approached our table, I felt a flutter of unease. There was something strange about his eyes. He opened them too widely, and he seemed to wait too long between blinks. I wondered if he was on some sort of medication.